Eyes × Eyes

After dinner, Madara cleared away the dishes and returned to the living room. Izuna was already sitting cross-legged on a cushion in the Quiet Room.

His usual biwa lay across his knees. Head bowed, he turned the tuning pegs, occasionally plucking a string and listening closely as he adjusted its pitch.

The dim yellow light fell across his intent profile, tracing soft lines. He looked entirely different from when he was playing with the children, with a settled stillness about him that was almost solemn.

Madara dried his hands and sat down opposite him.

He watched his younger brother's pale, nimble fingers brush the silk strings, sounding a few scattered but clear notes.

After a while, he spoke, his voice especially clear in the quiet room. "Have you decided what to play?"

"Mm, I have a general idea." Izuna didn't look up. His fingers slid absently along the neck of the instrument, as though measuring something. "I'm thinking about how to 'bring' it over."

"Bring it over?"

"Yeah, a piece... I used to love."

Izuna finally stopped tuning and tapped the biwa's soundboard lightly with his fingertips. "It's the piece that made a fingerstyle master famous. Supposedly, a lot of people doubted he played his incredibly fast passages himself. They thought he faked them with a machine or something, so he created this piece to prove 'a human really could play them with his fingers.'"

"The whole reason it exists is to 'prove' that, so I want to prepare this piece."

Madara caught the word at once. "Fingerstyle?" It immediately brought to mind Izuna's technique, so different from that of traditional biwa masters: he used no plectrum, relying entirely on his fingers to pluck and sweep the strings.

Wasn't that exactly what the conservatives had been attacking?

"That's right, fingerstyle." Izuna looked up at Madara, his eyes shining. "Didn't they say my fingering was unorthodox and didn't deserve to be called biwa playing? Then I'll use this piece, which was created to 'prove fingerstyle,' to show them what 'orthodox' really means."

Madara frowned slightly.

He didn't doubt Izuna's ability. His younger brother's vibrant music had won him over long ago.

But he knew even better how obstinate the nobles and artists entrenched in the Capital were, with their claims to "orthodoxy" and "refinement."

"Izuna, I understand what you're thinking. But to them, 'orthodoxy' means rules handed down for a thousand years, particular scores, fixed ways of playing, even the performer's posture and clothing.

"Trying to prove yourself like this might do nothing for them. It could even make people laugh at you."

He wanted to remind his younger brother that this performance would be judged, not merely appreciated.

Those people's rigidity and arrogance were far more deep-rooted than the clash of swords in the ninja world.

To Madara's surprise, Izuna showed no sign of gravity or contemplation after hearing him out. Instead, he burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking gently, as though he had heard something particularly funny.

"Orthodoxy? Brother, you're right. To them, all those rules and restrictions are orthodoxy." Izuna stopped laughing and shook his head, but his eyes were piercingly bright. "But not to me."

He gently picked up the biwa and held it, his posture casual yet natural. "What I want to prove isn't the orthodoxy of the biwa. It's the orthodoxy of music."

"The orthodoxy... of music?" Madara repeated, somewhat puzzled.

"Mm." The smile faded from Izuna's face, replaced by an almost arrogant calm.

His voice was quiet, yet every word rang clear as striking jade. "What's the essence of music? It's sound, rhythm, melody, the expression of emotion, the resonance of souls.

"It's born in the human heart and reaches human ears. Fingering, instruments, scores, schools... they're all just tools, vessels, clothing. Clothing can be changed, tools can be improved, but music itself has remained unchanged since time immemorial."

He raised his right hand and plucked at the air a few times with his slender fingers. "Whether you use a plectrum or your fingers, whether you play a shamisen or this biwa, as long as what flows out in the end can move people, that's orthodoxy.

"On the other hand, even if you can recite your ancestral scores backward and have carved the rules into your bones, if what you play is lifeless and stirs no one but yourself—what kind of orthodoxy is that? That's a dead specimen."

Madara froze.

It was the first time he had seen that expression on his younger brother's face.

It was no longer the utterly unclouded warmth and cheerfulness he showed Madara, the children, and his friends in everyday life.

Nor was it the lively slyness he displayed when he occasionally played little tricks.

It was a condescending disdain and indifference.

All this time, Izuna had been far too "easy to get along with."

He showed goodwill to everyone in Konoha. Even Uchiha Takuma, who had initially been hostile toward him, had easily come to like him.

He patiently taught the children to sing, got along well with the young ninja, looked up to Hashirama with pure admiration, and treated Tobirama with easy familiarity. His suggestions on clan affairs were always constructive and inclusive.

Madara had thought this younger brother from "another world" was born with such a gentle, open heart.

Until this moment.

Until Izuna judged opponents he had yet to meet in such a calm, cold voice.

His tone was even, but his words were like a thin, keen blade, sharp and cutting.

Seeing Madara's slightly dazed expression, the chill on Izuna's face suddenly melted away, and he returned to his familiar self, wearing a faint, lazy smile.

As though his sharp remarks had been nothing more than an idle comment, he said, "Anyway, brother, don't worry. I know what I'm doing."

Madara came back to himself. Looking at his younger brother's softened expression, he gave a low chuckle. "As long as you know what you're doing."

Following Izuna's lead, he turned to a lighter subject. "So, our great music master, what are you going to use to 'crush' them? Surely it won't be that 'do-re-mi' you taught the children?"

"Teach them?" Izuna raised an eyebrow. "Oh, please. I might be willing to teach them, but they wouldn't be willing to learn. They might even accuse me of sullying art."

"There's no use being pleasant and reasoning patiently with people who are rigid and prejudiced to begin with. They'll just think you're weak and easy to push around.

"The only way is to crush them with what they value most and can't argue with: absolute technical skill."

"Play complex melodies they can't understand at speeds they can't imagine, and show them a level of skill they couldn't reach in a lifetime.

"Only when everything they're proud of has been utterly shattered," Izuna said with a soft laugh, "will a crack open in their closed minds, and only then will they begin to doubt what they've always believed."

At those words, the corners of Madara's mouth rose uncontrollably, higher and higher, until he finally burst out laughing.

"Hahaha... well said!"

He reached out and clapped Izuna firmly on the shoulder, his red eyes full of admiration and unreserved pride.

"That's my little brother!"

He should have realized it long ago. Someone who could survive in an "other world" like that, who possessed so much strange but effective "wisdom,"

who could calmly face the scrutiny of those around him and even influence Madara and Hashirama in turn... how could he really be a harmless sheep that did nothing but smile?

This calm scheming, this frank declaration that he would "crush" his opponents, this well-hidden sharpness and arrogance...

Madara felt that this Izuna was more complete, and more like his, Madara Uchiha's, younger brother.

Izuna rocked under Madara's pat. Hearing his undisguised laughter, the cold arrogance on his face instantly crumbled. The tips of his ears reddened slightly, and he muttered in embarrassment, "What... I was always amazing, you know."

He lowered his head and returned his attention to the biwa in his arms, plucking its strings as he began to work out how to give the piece new life on this ancient instrument.

Madara stopped laughing and watched his younger brother's profile as he immersed himself in the world of music again, his gaze gentle.

Moonlight fell on the two as they sat facing each other, casting two quiet shadows, one large and one small, on the tatami.

The only sounds left in the room were the crisp notes of Izuna occasionally plucking the strings to test them, and the rustle of his writing and drawing on the unrolled paper when he stopped playing.

Before long, it was nine o'clock.

Time to get ready for bed.

Izuna had already gone to sleep.

Madara stood in the study, holding a small container filled with pale green nutrient fluid.

The surface of the fluid trembled slightly, reflecting the dim yellow light in the room and the eyeball resting quietly at the bottom, seemingly no different from an ordinary person's.

His gaze was fixed on it. His fingertips tightened unconsciously, his knuckles turning slightly white.

Every night at this time felt like a silent death by a thousand cuts to him.

He watched Izuna skillfully raise a hand, press his fingertips against the inner edge of his left eye socket, and gently press and hook the eye out. It settled safely in his palm, leaving behind an empty, flesh-colored socket.

The process was astonishingly quick. Izuna didn't so much as move an eyebrow, as though he had removed not a part of his body, but an accessory.

But every time, Madara's heart gave a violent twinge at the sight.

"Brother, here." Izuna held out his hand, palm up, the lusterless eyeball lying quietly on it.

He was always like this, as though it were merely a daily chore, nothing at all, and he only wanted to finish it so he could hurry under the covers.

Madara took a deep breath, suppressed the tightness in his throat, and put the eye on the table.

"This contains a specially made nutrient fluid."

That day in the laboratory, Tobirama's tone had been unusually serious when he handed Madara the scroll.

"From what I've observed so far, this... this eye shows almost no signs of declining cellular activity, even after being outside the body for a considerable time."

"But I believe it's necessary to start maintaining and 'caring for' it now," Tobirama said. "It is living tissue, after all."

Madara accepted the scroll in silence, rubbing his fingertips over its cold surface.

"Based on my preliminary assessment, it should be used much like a prosthetic eye. It needs to be removed every day and kept in a particular environment to maintain its 'activity.'"

"Take it out at night and put it in early in the morning. And this isn't a suggestion. It's essential."

"Essential?" Madara frowned.

"That's right, essential." Tobirama pursed his lips. "You've already experienced what happens if you don't."

Madara's mind flashed back to the seven days after Izuna returned, when he had refused to remove the eye so Madara wouldn't worry, and to how easily the eyeball had come out when Tobirama barely applied any force on the seventh day.

"According to Izuna, he couldn't see out of his left eye from the second afternoon onward. The 'link' between the eye and the host's nerves probably became unstable around then, causing blurred vision."

"If it remains 'disconnected' for a long time, it may exert abnormal pressure on the eye socket and surrounding tissue, much like a prosthetic eye. Over time, that could cause a drooping eyelid, muscle atrophy, or even changes to the shape of his face."

He looked at Madara, his gaze calm. "So until I develop a better solution or thoroughly understand how it works, this 'ritual' must be performed every night."

Madara sighed soundlessly and looked away from the container toward the wall.

His gaze seemed to pass through the wooden partition and fall on his younger brother, sleeping peacefully in the next room.

Unlike Madara, who tossed and turned every night, Izuna always fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

It was always like this.

He spent the day full of energy, then fell asleep the instant his head hit the pillow at night, breathing slow and even, his sleeping face carefree and peaceful.

As though removing an eye were as ordinary a part of his daily routine as washing up, with not the slightest fear of darkness or separation.

This kid really doesn't care about it at all...

But Madara couldn't help caring.

His fingertips brushed the cold surface of the container, as though he could reach through it and touch the warmth the eye inside had once held.

There were two reasons he found it so hard to let this go.

The first was this ritual that had to be repeated every day.

The second was Izuna's attempts.

During the seven days when Madara was injured and Izuna was caring for him, Izuna had secretly tried more than once to do one thing: activate the Sharingan.

Izuna thought he had hidden it well.

Each time, he waited until Madara seemed fast asleep or his attention was briefly drawn elsewhere, then quietly slipped into the courtyard or found a quiet corner.

Madara had caught him several times.

Sometimes it was in the afternoon, when sunlight streamed past the eaves and cast a pool of light.

He would lie there with his eyes half closed, pretending to sleep, and watch through the narrow gap as Izuna crept over to a small clump of pansies in the courtyard, crouched down, and began his "serious" attempt.

He would crouch there, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, staring at a little purple flower swaying before him.

His expression was more focused than ever as he stared, as though he meant to set the flower alight with his gaze.

He could crouch like that for nearly half an hour, until his legs went numb. Only then would he scrunch up his face and get to his feet, grimacing and bracing himself on his knees, before muttering in frustration, "Why won't it work...?"

Whenever Madara saw it, he couldn't help wanting to laugh. But just as the corners of his mouth began to rise, an ache spread through his chest.

He knew Izuna had a Sharingan.

At first, he had thought it was only a Mitsudomoe and had breathed a sigh of relief, but Tobirama told him it was a Mangekyō Sharingan.

For Izuna's sake, he had gritted his teeth and agreed to let Tobirama research the Sharingan.

During that time, he had taken Izuna's left eye over at night as well, handing it to his silver-haired mortal enemy.

But after several days of research, Tobirama had come to see him with an expressionless face, set the container of pale green fluid on the table, and said, "I can't do it."

Madara had been reviewing documents at the time. His brush paused, and he looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said." For once, Tobirama's red eyes held neither hostility nor calculation, only the gravity and... frustration of facing an unknown problem.

"With my current skills, I can't analyze it, much less reproduce it. Even if you brought me every Sharingan your clan has in stock to take apart and play with, I still couldn't."

He paused, then said decisively, "I suspect that isn't an ordinary Sharingan at all, but a Mangekyō Sharingan."

Madara's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly, but his face betrayed nothing.

"On what grounds?"

"Its structure, and the 'jutsu formula' inside it... if that can even be called a 'jutsu formula.'"

Tobirama folded his arms, brow furrowed, as though recalling something both perplexing and fascinating. "I've never seen such a complex, intricate... creation. It's not as though a jutsu formula was 'written' into the eye. It's more like... the formula itself was made to 'grow' into an eye in some way I can't understand.

"Every node in its Chakra pathways fits perfectly with the nerves, blood vessels, and even more microscopic tissue. It's seamless and natural, yet terrifyingly precise."

He looked at Madara, his gaze sharp. "After just a preliminary noninvasive examination, I knew I couldn't make this thing.

"With the methods available now, there's only one possible result if I force it apart: its internal structure will be completely destroyed, leaving a pile of meaningless fragments of cells and tissue.

"The effort, skill, and... emotional investment that went into making this thing probably exceed anything we can imagine."

When he finished, Tobirama's expression was unusually complicated.

Madara knew what he wanted to say.

This unbelievably intricate "Mangekyō Sharingan," tailor-made for Izuna, proved just how astonishingly much Tobirama Senju of the other world had put into it for that world's Uchiha Izuna.

A man who had once grievously wounded Izuna and indirectly caused "Uchiha Izuna's" death had actually gone this far for his younger brother's eye in another world?

Just imagining the scene sent a chill through Madara and nearly gave him goosebumps.

He could tell Tobirama felt the same way.

That was why the man had stayed in the Capital all these days, using "follow-up negotiations with the Land of Fire" as an excuse not to return. Hashirama had even complained to him several times, wondering whether Tobirama was slacking off.

Madara had merely snorted. "Good. That'll stop you from always looking for a chance to sneak off to the gambling den. I really don't see what's so fun about it."

Hashirama had immediately deflated like a punctured balloon, the background turning gray.

Remembering how Hashirama had looked, the corners of Madara's mouth curved almost imperceptibly, but soon pressed into a straight line again.

In the end, Tobirama had told him that what he could do now was improve the linking system.

That meant finding a way to connect this specially made Mangekyō Sharingan to Izuna's body more stably and for longer.

He said he had collected enough data on the eye itself and didn't need Madara to bring it over again for the time being. He would come up with an improved solution as soon as possible.

"How soon is as soon as possible?" Madara had asked.

"...I'm not sure." For once, Tobirama hadn't given a definite deadline. "This involves neural connections, Chakra microcirculation, and the long-term compatibility of foreign tissue. It's much more complicated than simply making a Chakra weapon or a Sealing Jutsu. I need time, a great deal of time, and... perhaps some luck as well."

Madara lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling with his eyes open, and sighed soundlessly in the dark.

Who knows when that white-haired bastard will finish?